


All the Colours

by Trio Maxwell-Chang (thegreatwordologist)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatwordologist/pseuds/Trio%20Maxwell-Chang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone sees Molly in terms of colours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Colours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/gifts).



> Beta-read by the lovely [Facsimilii](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Facsimilii).

Colours are labels just as surely as words, and Molly knows it well. She’s lived her life in the shadow of them, all colors of the rainbow depending on who sees her, and she keeps quiet about it because she can’t possibly explain to each person how different the perception, how strange the idea. None of the colors truly fit, but that’s okay with her because she turns away from all of them.

To her father, she is a bright and glorious purple, nobility in the form of his precious princess. They shared tea parties and games of pretend in the garden, and he promised her that she would forever be his girl. Even now, twelve years after the last moments of his life, when the cancer had eaten away every bit of the man she’d known, she was his girl. She’d never taken much comfort in the idea of the afterlife, but purple still made her think of him. Once a year, she brought out a purple scarf and wore it around her neck, one single day a year when she spent time with her eyes closed and her inner sights on the princess he had believed she was.

She is orange to her friends, all bright and boundless energy that puts them to shame because she tries forever to keep up with Sherlock. She drinks too much coffee and throws herself into dancing when they drag her out. They laugh at her behind her back, sometimes, but it’s not malicious laughter, and she doesn’t mind that they beg off to go home while she’s still got energy. She isn’t afraid of a quiet taxi home, of falling into bed late and waking early, of needing her drug of choice, because when she dances herself into exhaustion, she sleeps without dreams.

Jim saw her as yellow, and sometimes she sees herself that way. She ignores the bravery it takes to wear her heart on her sleeve because she can’t think of it as bravery when her heart cracks a little more each day under the weight of storm-silver eyes and quicksilver mind. All she can recall is the mouse-soft voice squeaking ‘okay’ to each insult, each slight, each rejection. But yellow is more than simply cowardice, and she is more than a mouse, no matter what anyone thinks, and she finds her joy where she can. Occasionally, he even approves of her for a few moments, and those seconds mend the cracks a little.

To John, she must be green. She cannot tell him that it was not jealousy that kept his name from sticking in her mind. She doesn’t mind that he loves Sherlock, too, and she doesn’t mind that he’s allowed closer than she ever will be, but John will certainly not ever understand that. To him, she hovers on the edge, brown eyes gone green as she watches for her opening and waits, not entirely patiently, for the day when Sherlock will acknowledge her. John doesn’t understand the heart any more than Sherlock does, but Molly knows her own, and there is no room for green in it, whatever John believes. John doesn’t see as clearly as Sherlock does, but he’s gentle with her, perhaps in apology, perhaps in guilt. Sometimes, she needs the gentle attention.

She is almost certainly blue to Sherlock. He sees her sadness, her shyness, her hope, her fear, and more than anything else, he surely sees how she would do anything for him. She cannot explain to anyone why she has chosen Sherlock to follow, why she would give over everything to help him, but she would. She knows it is not simply her heart that flutters when he pierces her with that storm-silver stare, but also her soul, seeking the edges of his own so that he will understand that he doesn’t even need to ask her. Whatever it is, she will do it. She sees him clearly, she knows that he isn’t for her, and she never faults him when he turns away from the emotion in her eyes or the heart in her hands. She is the one who can accept him for who he is, without changing him. Even John doesn’t accept him just as he is, but it’s not a contest. It will never be a contest between them, because they are allies in the wake of Sherlock’s brilliance.

Lately, she’s red to Lestrade, a bright and brilliant crimson that explodes with light when he offers her the crook of his arm or pulls out her chair. She looks into tired hazel eyes and finds warmth overflowing, and she knows that Sherlock would never fault her for finding love with this weary detective inspector, that the planets orbiting around Sherlock’s sun can sometimes also orbit around each other, and she has chosen Lestrade because he is everything that Sherlock will never be to her, and because he brings out all the joy within her. She has locked away their first kiss deep within her heart, and whenever she closes her eyes to remember it, she is rocked by the passion all over again. And if this brilliant red doesn’t last, it doesn’t matter to her because it’s her choice, and she’s not afraid of things being over.

But when she looks into the mirror, there are no colours. She is princess and passion, loyalty and jealousy, cowardice and energy, and she is none of them because they are all shadows of her true self, except that there is nothing within her true self that she can point to. When others aren’t looking at her, she is no one. She disappears into the world, invisible and intangible, just one more lost soul searching for the truth. And so she never looks into the mirror; she never gets completely out of sight. 

The colours are all she is, until she can find a way to be all of them without forgetting how to be herself at the same time. But she’s no more afraid of beginnings than she is endings, and that change will be when her life truly begins. She will be ready.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as part of a personal writing challenge, as well as written as a thank you to [Hamstermoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon) for being my lovely Britpicker.


End file.
